


Any Other Way

by ValirysReinhald



Series: A Life by the Sea [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28307970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValirysReinhald/pseuds/ValirysReinhald
Summary: (Sequel to A Home By The Sea, part two of A Life by the Sea) Fleur Potter watched as grey skies passed overhead, and could only hope they weren't an omen of things to come. She has never been lucky, and she remembers all too well what such dark days bring.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Harry Potter
Series: A Life by the Sea [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195415
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Any Other Way

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my other work "A Home By The Sea", and will make very little sense if you have not read that already.

Any Other Way

Fleur Delacour looked out the window of the fifth floor of the ministry building, she was standing in a corner admiring the view while she waited for Aimée Beaucort to finish ordering her lunch from the cantine. As she looked out on the Parisian skyline, the peaks of Notre Dame and of the Sainte Chappelle barely visible in the distance, she took a moment merely to let the sight wash over her. Overcast skies drifting by, the weight of the day receded for a moment and a slight smile overtook her face at the thought of what awaited her at home that evening.

“I’ve got it, Fleur,” came Aimée’s voice from behind her.

Fleur turned to look at her, taking in the tray of depressingly monotone bread and soup as she did so. Without a word, Fleur looked down at the tray, then back up at Aimée with an arched eyebrow.

“Hey,” Aimée said defensively, “not all of us have professional chefs making us our personal lunch bag each day.”

At that, Fleur’s imperious expression gave way to slight chagrin. “Non, I suppose not,” replied Fleur, “Although Harry is not a professional chef you know.”

As they sat down at a nearby table Aimée snorted, “He may as well be.” And then, seeing the toasted prosciutto and pesto aioli sandwich Fleur pulled out of a slim paper bag and unwrapped from a sheet of butcher’s paper, “Though I wish he was… What I would give to be able to eat like that every day.” 

Fleur gave a slight laugh at the near drooling expression on Aimée’s face as she daydreamed about Harry’s cooking. Snapping out of her culinary fantasy with a blush, Aimée swatted at her arm with an embarrassed smile. 

“I’m being serious Fleur, why he doesn’t open a restaurant is beyond me. I can think of at least five people in our department alone that would trade their life savings to have that kind of food every day.” Then, at Fleur’s derisive look, “Granted, none of them have very much in their life savings but still.”

“Come on Aimée, it is not that bad.” Then, with another relished bite of the sandwich, “Your ‘nutrition supplement’ is getting cold.” Aimée looked down at her bowl of greyish soup and picked up her spoon. Lifting a spoonful out of the dish she looked at it, somehow managing to pout and grimace simultaneously, and took a sip.

Fleur waited expectantly then, after a moment, “Well? How is it?”

Aimée exhaled mournfully, “It isn't. It’s just bland.” Aimée put down the spoon and hunched over in her seat, thoroughly depressed.

Fleur sighed and paused in her meal. “Come on Aimée, even if you don’t like it you still need to eat it.”

Aimée scowled up at her, “I know, I’m not some toddler that thinks they can make food vanish by glaring at it.

Fleur just looked at her a moment, then, “You are a witch you know.”

Aimée froze, “No. No no no, you are not telling me that’s actually a possibility?” It seemed to Fleur as though Aimée experienced an entire midlife crisis over the course of five seconds from the realization that she very well could have spent her whole childhood glaring her vegetables into nonexistence. 

“Indeed,” replied Fleur, “Though evidently not one you are able to take advantage of. And so, soup.” After that pronouncement, Fleur returned to her sandwich with gusto as Aimée continued to contend with the thoroughly inadequate bowl of chowder.

Five minutes and exactly one bite of soup later, “Why even is it so bland?” Aimée asked with desperate confusion. “It’s not like they’re pressed for ingredients.” 

“Mass production limits the chefs’ ability to make it tasty,” answered Fleur, “they focus on making it nutritious instead.”

That, it seemed, was the nail in the coffin for Aimée’s resistance, and she sadly surrendered to the monotony of bland sourdough and peppercorn chowder. 

Taking a moment to pause in her meal, Fleur let her gaze wander across the cantine. Her gaze caught on the sight of Charles Bassett practically vibrating into the room, and for a moment she simply stared in amazement at the plainly childlike glee the normally pretentious man was radiating. A loud huff brought her back to their table, “I’m done.” said Aimée.

Fleur looked pointedly down at the half-full bowl, then back up at Aimée. Aimée scowled, “I ate the bread.” Indeed she had managed to choke the plain sourdough down along with half the soup, and that was likely all Fleur would get out of her. 

With a shrug, Fleur returned to her sandwich. “Oh my, what’s gotten into him?” Fleur looked up and followed Aimée’s gaze back to Charles at the lunch counter. “He’s actually being polite…” Fleur noted with amusement that Aimée sounded mildly concerned by the notion. 

“He must be near finished with his project,” Fleur said. 

“I suppose so,” said Aimee. “You know, I’m still not sure just what it is he’s doing. I know it’s some form of arithmantic focus, but I haven’t a clue how that would even begin to work.”

The words gave Fleur pause, and, suddenly serious, she turned to watch Charles bounce out of the Cantine, bowl of bland soup in hand. “I hope he’s careful.” Fleur’s tone brought Aimée back around, an inquisitive look on her face. 

“There was something similar. In the war. An arithmantic amplifier, it could magnify a simple lighting charm into a light so bright it would scald the skin.” At the look of faint eagerness on Aimée’s face, Fleur hurried on. “It failed, and not well. The man that designed it tried to use it. The moment it activated it ran wild, amplifying and oscillating the magic around it at random. The entire village was destroyed...”

For a moment Fleur was dragged back to the mud, the fragments, the mass of life left behind. Rising from her reverie with a shudder, Fleur took in the now distinctly disturbed expression playing across Aimée’s features. “Don’t worry, it was lost with the man that created it.”

“I’m glad,” Aimée said, sombre, “and you’re right, I do hope he’s careful.”

In the awkward moment that followed Fleur returned to her sandwich, for a moment reminding herself of Ronald Weasley. The absurdity of the comparison served to shake her out of her gloom, and she rapidly returned to the business of eating. 

Now it was Aimée’s turn to arch an eyebrow, and she commented on Fleur’s speed saying, “Are you just enjoying it that much or do you have somewhere to be?”

Pausing with a smirk Fleur replied saying, “The latter actually.” At the suddenly intrigued expression on Aimée’s face, she added, “Harry and I have some rather special plans for tonight.”

Sighing good-naturedly, Aimée leaned back, “Should’ve known it would be that, you never can resist a chance to rub in that you caught the best fish in the sea.” 

Fleur straightened with a smug grin, “But of course, he could never have resisted me. After all, I am me.” 

Aimée snorted, “You’re something alright.” Fleur rose with a mock glare, bundling up the waste paper wrapping. “Seriously though, I’ve never seen you rushing like this.”

“I am trying to get through today’s work early,” Fleur admitted, “We really do have special plans for tonight.”

The corners of Aimée’s mouth rose and she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, “Just how ‘special’ are we talking here?” 

Fleur gave an exasperated sigh, “Honestly Aimée, you have such a one-track mind.” Fleur turned and walked from the cantine, Aimée’s giggles following her as she went, pausing only to discard her wastepaper by the door.

\------

The sound of a grandfather clock chiming four drew Fleur out of the monotony of her paperwork. With a startled glance at her watch, she realized it had been nearly an hour since she had last been conscious of what she was doing. Taking a moment to assess the papers in front of her, currently a report detailing an experimental enchanted cauldron, Fleur realized that she was nearly finished with the stack of parchment that she had found on her desk after returning from lunch. 

One page, three lines of writing, and a signature later, Fleur was ready to leave. Her chair shifted back with a creak as she stood, the dark wood and blue upholstery long since worn down from its original pristine condition. She remained in place for a moment, a feeling of having forgotten something niggling in the back of her mind. As Fleur’s mind wandered her eyes traced the room, the pale ceiling, the muted blue wallpaper, the dark wood panelling running halfway up the walls. Movement in the corner of her vision caught her eye as Charles dashed through the door and into the research hall. The reflection in the glass pane of the research hall door sparked an epiphany as Fleur reached down into her desk drawer and pulled out the slim framed photo Fleur had had made for that evening. A merest flash of greenery caught her eye before she put it in her work case, ready to leave. 

Satisfied that she had everything, Fleur turned to leave just as an unnatural silvery glow filled the room. The sense of radiating joy was overshadowed as worry filled Fleur’s mind at the sight of Harry’s patronus. “James is hurt,” said the patronus with Harry’s voice, “He slipped on the rocks by the beach and broke his arm badly, we are at Saint Fiacre’s getting him treated. He’ll be fine but you need to get here.” 

The words had scarcely left the silver stag’s mouth before Fleur was out the door, half-closed work case in hand. A spike of fear shot through her mind, staved off only by the echo of Harry’s voice saying James would be alright. As she rounded the corner into the atrium, moving at a speed barely below a run, Fleur headed directly for the emergency apparition point, set aside for occasions when ministry employees had to bypass the standard queue and get in or out urgently. 

With a loud crack Fleur appeared in the arched entryway of Saint Fiacre’s Magical Hospital, the elegant glass and wrought bronze doors flying open as Fleur rushed towards the reception desk. She took her place behind an elderly man, seemingly also rushing to see someone, and waited impatiently as the frazzled looking receptionist helped him as quickly as she could. Once the man had turned away Fleur stepped forward, “My son is being treated here, I need to know where.”

The receptionist fumbled with the chart in front of her, “Name please.” she said quickly.

“James Sébastien Potter” The receptionist’s eyes widened and she glanced up momentarily as she realized who Fleur was, “Of course Mrs. Potter, he’s right this way.” With that, the receptionist leapt to her feet and, somewhat surprisingly, began escorting Fleur to her son’s room leaving her station behind. Not that Fleur would complain about it, as she led Fleur along a route that seemed both far more complicated and much faster than was ordinary.

“Here we are,” said the receptionist, stammering as she gestured Fleur towards a room in the pediatric ward and, seemingly realizing that she had left her post unmanned, turned on her heel and rushed back the way they came. Turning to the door, Fleur approached at nearly a jog, then just as she went to grab the handle, the door opened and a tall man in pale green robes stepped out. Fleur took in his features as the two of them stepped back reflexively to avoid walking into each other, he had a strong but kind face, pale blonde hair cut short, a thin straight nose, and thin rectangular glasses. 

Taking in her frazzled appearance, the healer spoke, “You must be Mrs. Potter, I am Healer Sauveterre. James and your husband are just inside, we were able to repair the damage in moments, and now only need to look over his results to prevent any complications. Just be sure to keep him more careful in the future.” He gave a soft smile, “James is perfectly alright, Mrs. Potter, just a little shaken up. Go on in and see him.” Then he stood aside and gestured her into the room.

Taking a moment to compose herself, Fleur did her best to wipe away the frantic worry on her features and appear a vision of calm motherly concern to avoid disturbing James. That done, she strode in and found Harry speaking gently to James from the chair by the window opposite the door. Harry glanced up at the sound of Fleur’s slight work heel clicking on the ward room floor. His face broke out in a gleaming smile of relief prompting James to look around and see her.

“Maman!” Fleur nearly missed a step and her throat caught at the sound of James’ voice. He looked small. Bright but fragile, a smile on his lips and a slight quiver in his eyes. Fleur saw it all in the span of a heartbeat, her own heart racing in her chest at the sight.

“I am here James, I am here.” Fleur sat on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping the cream and pale green bedspread and the other reaching over to caress James’ cheek. “How are you?” asked Fleur, studying James' features as she did so.

“I’m fine, Papa was right there to save me.”

“Of course he was.” said Fleur, glancing up at Harry as she did so she saw that his eyes were suspiciously bright, shining with the remains of unshed tears. There was no other sign of his worry as he smiled gently down at James, briefly glancing up to meet Fleur’s gaze.

“I caught him before he fell in the sea, but his arm broke in the tumble.” 

“Well then, I am just glad you were able to get to a healer as quickly as you did.”

A moment passed in silence as Fleur gently stroked the top of James’ head, his eyes drooping, the seven-year-old thoroughly exhausted from the excitement of the day.

“Where is little Isabelle?” asked Fleur, a slight edge of panic filling her voice at the realization that she wasn’t in the room with them. 

“I called your sister,” answered Harry, “I had Gabrielle come pick her up, she’s with her now.”

The next hour passed in relative quiet, Harry and Fleur simply sitting in the silence and letting the time pass over them. A little after five o’clock Healer Sauveterre walked back in the room with a board and parchment. Harry and Fleur rose to greet him as he walked in and began to speak.

“James’ arm has healed nicely, no sign of microfractures and the compound break has been fully repaired. The damage to the surrounding tissue has been healed and he is ready for discharge, sign here and you’re free to go.” He handed Fleur the board with a smile and she took it, quickly scanning the release form as she lifted the self-inking quill, ready to sign. Yet another few lines and a signature later, Fleur handed back the form and turned to where Harry was coaxing James out of his nap.

“You’ve done very well with him.” Fleur turned at the sound of Healer Sauvetarre’s voice, he continued, eyes still locked on James’ slowly waking form. “Even when your husband brought him in with fragments of bone protruding from his arm, he stayed optimistic. After a numbing charm and he was able to talk, he just kept saying that he’d be alright cause his Papa was there and his Maman was on his way.”

He turned to face her then, a serious look in his eyes. “I know who you and your husband are, Mrs. Potter, and I’m glad you are that boy’s parents. I can’t think of any other couple that would be able to keep composure like you and your husband did. Running through the halls with your son bleeding in his arms, rushing to the hospital to find out what happened with nearly no news, especially not separated as you were.”

Fleur blinked at him, unsure where he was going with this. He turned back to face Harry and James, who was now stubbornly trying to tie his shoes one handed, and continued, “Your son trusts his parents more than any child I have ever treated. I have healed thousands of children, Mrs. Potter, and while hundreds have cried for their parents, none have merely waited for them to arrive.”

\-----

It had taken them another half an hour to actually leave the hospital, James had stubbornly insisted on poking around and seeing what was what and where. It didn’t help that he had waylaid them at the gift shop, as James was enamoured with the collection of stuffed creatures they had. Ten minutes and a stuffed dragon later they had finally been able to leave the hospital, arriving out of the floo network into the parlour of their home by the sea. A small yawn sounded from Fleur’s right where James was standing between her and Harry. Fleur exchanged a glance with Harry then, 

“Come on James, it is time for you to have a nap.”

James looked up at her with wide eyes, “But I’m not tired.”

Fleur smiled patiently down at him, kneeling to look him in the eye, “Yes you are, James, you’ve had a very exciting day and you need your rest.”

“But what about dinner?” 

Harry chuckled overhead and James twisted round to look at him, “We’ll wake you for dinner, and you can stay up late with us then, but for now you need to go get some rest.”

Fleur stood, placed her workcase down by her chair, and took James’ hand and, once Harry had finished speaking, gently pulled him along out of the parlour and down the hall to the bedrooms.

James spoke again as they got to the door of his room, “Maman, are you ok?”

Fleur blinked and stared down at James, hand still resting on the handle, the door half-opened, “Of course I am, why would I not be?”

James looked down then, his hands bunching up by his waist, “It’s just, I scared you and Papa today.”

“Oh James,” Fleur reached down and lifted him into her arms, idly noting that soon she wouldn’t be able to, “Your Papa and I don’t care about that, we only care that you are okay.”

James sniffled a bit as they strode across the room, and curled up into her side as they sat down on the edge of his bed. 

“But you’re Maman and Papa, you’re not supposed to get scared.”

Fleur leaned him down and tucked him in while he spoke, sitting down beside him as he finished.

“We get scared all the time James, being afraid is not what matters.” James' eyes widened as she spoke, “Then what is it that matters?” 

Fleur smiled gently and kissed him on the forehead, “Doing the right thing anyway.”

With that, Fleur stood and walked over to the door, turning back to face James as she closed it, watching his eyes droop as her sight of him narrowed, right up until it vanished completely with the click of the latch. Fleur rested her head against the pale blue and gold surface of the door, letting out a small sigh before turning and heading back down the hall to the parlour where Harry waited.

Walking in through the archway, Fleur spied Harry sitting in an armchair opposite the fireplace and took her place in the chair next to him. Letting out a deep sigh as she sat down, her body already starting to feel the exertions of the day, Fleur sat in companionable silence as she and Harry and went over the day in their heads. 

Harry broke the silence, “Today was scary.”

“I know.”

“I tried to stop him. I was there, I saw him slip, I reached for him but I was too late.”

“You caught him before he could get too badly hurt.”

“The bones of his arm were sticking out of his skin.”

Fleur turned to look at her husband, she saw him sitting there, staring off into the distance out the window, the greying sky a perfect match to his mood.

“You saved him, Harry.”

“I shouldn’t have let him be in danger in the first place, I shouldn-”

“You should not have what, Harry?” Fleur felt a familiar frustration building up within her, only amplified by the stress of the day. “You saved him, he was hurt and you saved him. There is no point bothering with what-ifs.”

Harry turned round to look at her, seeing the anger in her eyes. He let out a sigh, “I know. That doesn’t mean I can keep myself from doing it though.”

Fleur’s eyes softened then, “Me neither.”

They sat in silence a moment, then Harry spoke.

“Do you remember James’ fifth birthday?”

Fleur snorted, “How could I not? He slipped down the stairs and almost hit his head on his way to the kitchen.” 

“Almost as accident prone as I was.”

Fleur looked dubiously over at him.

“Okay maybe not, but as close as can be.”

“Harry, if James was even half as accident prone as you were as a child then he wouldn’t have made it past four.”

“I made it past four.” Harry said, seemingly affronted at her insinuation and also strangely proud of the achievement.

“You had fate on your side Harry, no one other than you could have survived being you.”

Harry considered, then conceded. “No, I suppose not.”

Silence reigned again, this time it was Fleur that spoke first.

“I remember, two years ago, when Isabelle had just gotten over her fight with Rose, the day Hermione brought her over to play.”

Harry chuckled, “Isabelle was so excited, she ran full speed into the screen door.”

Fleur smiled, “She bounced right off and slid down the hall into the coat rack,”

“And my old work hat fell off the top and landed on her face.” Harry finished.

“She looked as if she was a cartoon farmer.”

“And then there was the time James tried to make a waterslide.”

Fleur gave an undignified snort at the memory. “I still do not know where he got that sheet of waxed canvas from.”

“He made such a mess, couldn’t figure out a way to keep the water flowing, so he just kept pouring buckets down it.”

“Eventually it got slippery enough to slide on, and he jumped right down, sliding all the way down the hill and into the massive puddle of mud he had made at the bottom.”

“He came running back to the house, smiling ear to ear and looking like a great clay golem.”

Fleur chuckled, “It took me an hour to get him clean.”

The two lapsed into silence then, Fleur tilted her head back on the worn red plush chair and stared at the ceiling. After a moment she leaned her head to the right to stare at Harry instead, finding him already looking at her. She opened her mouth to speak, “Harry, I-'' The fireplace roared to life startling them both bolt upright. Aimée Beaucort’s head resting in the green flames, a panicked expression on her face. 

“Fleur, you have to come quick. Charles’ experiment went wrong, we don’t know what happened.”

Bewildered, Fleur made to clarify, “Aimée? What do you mean, what happened?”

“The arithmantic array, it failed!”

For a moment Fleur was frozen, no longer in her own parlour in her house where she lived with her husband and two children, but in a dreary Irish village on the coast of the north sea, surrounded by death, and a sound like the world screaming.

“-leur! Come on get up, they need you.” Harry was pulling her to her feet, in a daze she stumbled toward the fireplace, Aimée’s head pulling back from the flames as Harry stuffed a handful of floo powder into her fist. 

Shaking her head to clear it, Fleur strode into the fireplace, spoke the address of the emergency floo port at the ministry, threw down the powder, and was gone.

\-----

It was strangely calm, Aimée was near panicking of course, but the rest of the ministry seemed blissfully unaware that anything had happened. Fleur was silent as they jogged through the dark halls towards the Department of Experimental Magics and Artifacts where She, Charles, and Aimée all worked. As they moved Fleur remembered, she remembered the mad face of Edward Snyde, surrounded by the Order of the phoenix. She remembered the village of Leenane in northern Ireland, the bodies of hundreds of muggles discarded in the square like rubbish. She remembered the mad Edward standing in the center of his arithmantic array, a warded shield protecting him from attack, unleashing the inferious enchantment upon the townland through the array. She remembered the horror as it went wrong. Edward had been consumed, the madman’s body gripped by the unnatural violence of his creation, the dark scholar’s flesh rippling with endless decay, as the facsimile of life acted upon the already living, twisted beyond recognition by the array through which it was cast. 

She had been the one responsible for breaking the shield, she had failed. She had seen him about to activate the array and she had run, run without warning driven by pure instinct, sole self-preservation. Even as she ran, the Order finally starting to follow suit, she looked back over her shoulder and witnessed as the shield gave way, she watched as the mad body of Edward Snyde exploded outward, a miasma of rampant life and decay surging forth, devouring the corpse of the village, consuming those too slow to run in time. The spell decayed further, the earth itself beginning to twist and bend in unnatural waves, the air, the buildings, all of it warping in on itself. 

Reality screamed, silenced only when Alastor Moody unleashed the killing curse, the unforgivable spell cleaving through the magic suffused air like a blade through water, striking the unliving body of the monster who unleashed the spell, ending his life and misery. Cut off from the source, the array went silent, but the world still screamed out its violation. A sound not sensed with the ear, but felt with the mind as it pierced the very sanity of those who heard. 

She walked in a daze, as she did now, through the village towards the square. Alastor had grabbed her arm, pulled her back before she could witness the abomination’s remains. She had never had the chance to thank him, he was dead a week later. 

Fleur felt her hand on metal as she flung open the door to the research hall, striding into the room and spotting the experiment chamber where Charles had been working, witches and wizards rushing about the door in frenzy. Fleur ran forward as the door opened, and froze as she heard the sound. The merest hint of reality screaming. For a moment she stood still, she knew that sound, she heard it in her dreams, her nightmares. 

Charles was not working on any arithmantic array, the fool had recreated the arithmantic array. Her feet stayed still only a second as she sprinted forward, wand in hand, ignoring the shouts of the hazard team around her. The door slammed open and the scream slammed into her mind, she pressed on. She found Charles convulsing gently on the floor, a shimmering ring of symbols glowing on the floor, twisting and warping in mind-bending ways, held back only by the containment circle Charles must have drawn as a safety precaution, a circle that was slowly decaying. 

Charles himself was suffused with light, his skin seething with energy and golden flare shined through like flames through cracked stone. As she dropped to her knees she began casting the spells she had spent every waking moment of her life learning since her failure in Leenane. She idly noted that Charles had succeeded in making it more stable, but that it wasn’t enough. His eyes were writhing, blind and filled with light, they seemed to boil from within. Fleur placed her wand upon his forehead and began chanting a song of cleansing, purity, and oblivion. The light began to settle, still burning within him but no longer mutating rampantly, and Fleur set to the long work of undoing what had been done.

\-----

The clock chimed one in the morning as the water cascaded over Fleur’s hands and wrists, the washroom where she was standing was nearly abandoned by now. It had been nearly seven hours since Aimée’s head had appeared in her fireplace, seven hours since she had rushed to save Charles from the experiment gone wrong, seven hours since the french Ministry of Magic had nearly been wiped out. 

Fleur reached again for the bar of soap, still unable to wash the feeling of boiling blood and plasma off her fingers. She didn’t think that anyone had realized just how close they had come to catastrophe, then again, how could they? Charles hadn’t told anyone what he was working on, and she was the only person still alive of those that had witnessed the violation of Leenane in Ireland. Fleur closed her eyes.

The door opened with a faint creak of hinges, Fleur didn’t look around. “Hey Fleur.” It was Aimée. Giving up on washing her hands clean, they had been spotless for half an hour already, she turned to see Aimée standing there. Aimée searched her face and found nothing, Fleur’s expression was dead neutral.

“I uh, I heard you saved Charles.”

“I did.”

“They, they wouldn’t let me in.”

“You would not have been able to help.”

Aimée looked down, suddenly frail. “He almost died.”

“He almost killed us all.”

Aimée looked up, and in that moment Fleur was struck by the vision of another woman, more than eight years her junior, a little blonde with blue eyes, confronted with the evils of war. Fleur’s eyes softened, and she took a step forward with her arms wide open.

Aimée collapsed into her with a stifled cry, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just, I just can’t-”

“It’s alright.” Fleur guided her to a nearby bench and they sat down, Fleur’s hand resting on Aimée’s shoulder. 

“I knew there were risks, I’m not stupid, but…”

“You never thought it would happen to you.”

Aimée nodded silently. “It was magic, and magic never hurt me. It was all just so beautiful, all I wanted was to know more.”

“Is it beautiful no longer?”

Aimée looked up at her, surprised, then slowly looked away again. “I don’t know.”

They stayed there in silent stillness for a moment, and then, “How did you do it?”

When Fleur looked at her quizzically she continued, “The first time, after the village.”

A slight smile passed over Fleur’s face as she remembered, seeing the confusion on Aimée’s features she answered. “I wasn’t alone.”

“Who’d you meet?”

“I met Harry.”

Fleur thought back to those days, she’d been listless, restless, she felt like a failure, to a degree she was. She had been wandering aimlessly through the tangled growth that constituted the small garden behind Grimmauld Place, only to have her journey interrupted by someone who was already out there.

“There I was, caught up in my lowest point, and there he was, caught up in something even worse. He saw me cry, so he did his best to make me smile instead.”

Something like wonder filled Aimée’s eyes as Fleur continued, “That is who he is, he does what’s right, no matter what. Even when he’s afraid, even when it seems like there is nothing ‘right’ left in the world. He helped to show me that even when what was once beautiful seems marred, that there is yet more beauty to be found over the horizon.”

“He seems perfect.”

“He was not.”

Aimée tilted her head in confusion, a frustrated wrinkle forming on the bridge of her nose.

“He has his flaws like the rest of us Aimée, I helped him as much as he helped me.”

“So what’ll I do?”

Fleur turned to look her in the eye, “Talk to someone, and keep going. The pain will fade in time, but the strength you gain here will not.”

For a moment, Aimée stayed frozen in place, then rose. “Thank you, Fleur.”

Fleur rose alongside her, and held out a hand. “You are welcome, Aimée.”

Aimée made to shake her hand, but as she grasped it Fleur pulled her into an embrace, then leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “And do not give up on the beauty of magic, it may yet surprise you.”

Aimée pulled back with a watery smile, “I won’t, I promise. I won’t give up at all.”

\-----

The sound of rain on glass greeted her as Fleur stepped out of the fireplace and into the parlor. A faint light came in through the window, rippling in time with the rain pouring down the glass. The room was dark, not so much as a lamp lit the scene. Fleur stepped forward and draped her hand across the back of the red plush chair where she had sat earlier. She thought back to the day they got them, Fleur had not the faintest idea why Harry had been so excited, not until he showed her a photo taken by Colin Creevy depicting the Gryffindor common room. She turned and walked to the windowsill, the very same photo sitting there, taken near the end of Harry’s third year, it showed all of Gryffindor house, united and whole, celebrating after a quidditch match, and at the center, surrounded by cheering faces, the house quidditch team sitting on red plush couches and chairs. 

Idly tracing the frame with one hand, Fleur turned to her work case, resting against the chair where she had left it. She knelt down and opened it, pulling out the photo she had gotten made. It was not possible for this photo to exist even a month ago, but an experimental process one of her colleagues had developed allowed its existence. It was a photo of a memory, clear as if it had been taken the day it occurred. There he was, leaning on a stone and wrought iron fence, surrounded by weeds, clothed in pristine rags, and there she was, designer robes covered in thorns and brambles, leaves in her hair, tear tracks on her face as they laughed their heads off at a joke he just made. It was funny, she could not remember what he said.

Fleur rose from the floor, picture in hand, and strode out the room. She listened for the sound of speech, footsteps, anything. She heard nothing, nothing save the rain. As she reached the center hall she paused, drawn to the right and to the door out to the balcony. In her tired fugue she could not think why.

She turned and walked forward, running her right hand along the wall as she did so, the photo still clutched in her left. She slowed as she reached the door, the sound of the rain pounding on the glass numbing her mind as she rested her free arm horizontally across the glass. For a moment she stood there, eyes roving aimlessly, until they fell upon the table set outside, and the rain collecting in the bowls and plates set there. A table for two. 

Fleur brought her arm down lower and rested her head against it, eyes screwed shut, a burning feeling in her throat and her chest caught tight.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, the normally musical tones emerging a choked mumble instead, “I am sorry I missed our anniversary dinner, Harry.”

“What matters is that you came home at all.” The voice came from behind her, and as Fleur wheeled round, photo still clutched in hand, she beheld the sight of her husband. Glasses slightly askew, hair even messier than normal, and with the kindest smile she had ever seen. She stood there limply as he placed the two mugs he had been holding on the curio table to her right, then walked silently forward and embraced her.

She clung to him as if her life depended on it, desperately, hopelessly as the tears streamed silently down her face.

“I do not deserve you Harry.”

“And I don’t deserve you either Fleur, but you taught me to stop caring about that a long time ago.”

Harry receded, and through the tears in her own eyes she could just barely make out the tenderness in his. He reached a hand behind her head and pulled her close to place a kiss on her forehead, Fleur let her eyes drift shut and simply existed for a moment, in that moment, for as long as she could. 

Harry drew back and her right hand in his. A flick of his wand and the steaming mugs, which smelled like cider, floated off the table and followed them. Harry pulled her gently along, and towards the kitchen stairs. He spoke gently and quietly as he did so, “James is with Isabelle at your sister’s, they’re both fine.”

As he brought her down the stairs and into the kitchen, Fleur stopped short. There, on the wooden worktable, was a set of plates and bowls, a table set for two. She turned to him to see him smiling, “I wasn’t just going to leave it out in the rain.”

Fleur nodded stiffly and went to sit down, pausing to look down on the dishes full to the brim with bouillabaisse, and felt a smile grow on her face again. She looked up at Harry as she sat down, and saw him grinning at her.

“Are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?” He asked in a deliberately awful French accent, a playful smile on his lips.

“Yes, i’ is jus my favorit’” She responded in turn, in an equally horrific English accent akin to a Victorian chimney sweep. 

Harry sat down, and Fleur went to take a piece of fresh bread only to realize she still had the photo on her hand. Harry glanced at it quizzically, and Fleur placed it on the table for him to see.

“Happy anniversary Harry.”

Harry took the photo, looked down at it and froze. His eyes widened and he looked up at her in amazement, “How?”

Fleur smiled warmly, glad that at least this had gone as planned. “It’s magic, Harry.” 

Harry huffed, eyes glued to the picture. “I meant what kind of magic.”

Fleur’s smile slipped a bit but remained in place nonetheless, “The experimental kind.”

Harry looked up at her then and she saw nothing but love reflected in his eyes. “Thank you, Fleur, Thank you.”

\-----

As she lay in bed, Harry by her side, Fleur couldn’t help but think back on the day, now yesterday, and how it had gone. It wasn’t at all what she had planned, nothing like what she had expected. “You’re still awake.” It wasn’t a question, she turned to see Harry staring at her. She sighed, “I cannot sleep.”

“Today reminded you of the war.” this wasn’t a question either. 

Fleur rolled onto her back and snuggled backwards into Harry, who in turn embraced her. As they there Fleur looked up at the photo in pride of place on the headboard where Harry had put it, thinking back to the memory from which it was taken. 

“It was horrid.”

“It was evil, but there was some good that came out of it.”

Fleur twisted around to look at him in confusion. “What on earth could have come out of that war that was good?”

Harry just smiled at her, “We did Fleur, if that’s what it took to bring us together,” and Harry leaned in to kiss her as he whispered, “then I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


End file.
